Within . . . A bit of peace, or lull.
But the outside was far from dull.
The world looked – troubled and twisted.
The turmoil could – not be resisted.
From ennui we felt inside,
We sought meaning far and wide.
Though things were good, things were right,
To here we would turn our fight . . .
We turned to tales of strife and pain.
To animate our lives again.
But that strife was never true.
So, what was left for us to do?
Live the story. Live the tale.
Create foes ‘pon which to rail.
It all seemed like a metaphor,
A metaphor for not much more.
A filling for an empty soul.
One that was already whole.
And so, peace broke, as predicted.
A fall that was self-inflicted.
Now we have our long-lost pain.
For ‘saken peace what shall we gain?
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